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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27148376">A Discreet Establishment</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassieIngaben/pseuds/CassieIngaben'>CassieIngaben</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Related, Dorian Red Gloria's childhood, During Canon, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:17:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,060</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27148376</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassieIngaben/pseuds/CassieIngaben</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Morris Gordon was still getting used to being the Glorias' butler rather than the manager of a discreet establishment in Soho.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>From Eroica With Love - Groups Challenges</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Discreet Establishment</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veruska/gifts">Veruska</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gordon retreated on silent feet from the scene unfolding in the room. He felt uneasy, yet he could do nothing to interfere. He wasn't even sure why he wanted to: but maybe he still had to get used to being a butler rather than the manager of the Court Club. There, he'd been able to gauge when it was time to discreetly take one of the boys aside and alert them something was off. Unfortunately, it had been nigh impossible to take the punters aside for a quick word, unless the situation was slipping out of control, hoping it was not too late. Like with poor Rutley.</p><p>He shook his head. It was in the past. And it was orders of magnitude away from three girls tormenting their younger brother under the guise of playing dolls. The boy had looked bemused at first, then almost hypnotised when he'd glimpsed his reflection in the mirror, eyes widening as he batted his false eyelashes and stared at the sparkly necklace he was wearing. Gordon had seen that happen many times at the Club, how the transformation took over—and yet it was slightly troubling when it involved a boy barely turned nine. But the unease was not about the clothes, or the way the boy seemed to find them just a little too appealing—it was how the girls were gloating. The same mean-spirited girls that called the boy names because he spent time with his father's coterie.</p><p>The boy was at the same time precocious and naïve—Gordon'd overheard him innocently ask one of his father's 'special' friends, 'What does queer mean?' At least the man had had the sense to just laugh it off rather than making the boy feel bad. Gordon liked the boy. He'd seen from the start how high-spirited and intelligent he was. How he radiated <em>joie de vivre</em> despite the dark cloud of his mother's displeasure. Maybe he was immune by virtue of being spoiled and flattered by his father's doting on him and showing him off to his motley collection of friends. But that was dangerous, too. The boy was surrounded by apparently benevolent people who were actually up to no good—beginning with his sisters, but by no means ending there. There was much that made Gordon uneasy.</p><p>*          *          *</p><p>It had happened serendipitously. Hugh Fansworth had remarked casually how his favourite discreet establishment in Soho was folding. Being in the papers usually spelled the end for venues such as the Court Club—especially when the headlines were as gory as those ones.</p><p>Theo had tuned out the details, never one for violence; but he'd rejoined the conversation when Mark Dibley-Thoomer had asked: "What did you think of the Court Club, Theo? You seemed to like it when I saw you there—it was ages ago. I remember you were still trying to be discreet."</p><p>"Was I? I can't really remember. I tended not to go to the same place every time."</p><p>Dibley-Thoomer shook his head. "I should have known. You and your 'variety is the spice of life'. Well, the Court was really good. Very discreet, classy enough—for that type of place. And the manager was outstanding. Morris Gordon. Great manners—didn't come across as the usual low-life—and he ran the club like clockwork. I hope he can find himself a good position."</p><p>Theo raised his glass. "A glowing review and a fit epitaph."</p><p>Fansworth laughed. "Dibs, your stealth needs work. Theo, he's trying to say that Morris Gordon's looking for a new job."</p><p>"I daresay. But what's this got to do with me? I'm not running any discreet establishments."</p><p>Dibley-Thoomer raised an eyebrow. "Are you? I admit you're much less interested in discretion these days, but it's still a good idea to keep a low profile. People may be more inclined to close an eye or two, but it's still illegal—"</p><p>Theo refilled his glass. "I still don't see what are you getting at."</p><p>"It's not as discreet as it could be, but this is an establishment, isn't it?" Dibley-Thoomer gestured around him to encompass what could be called a large party—and felt just a little too close to becoming something more interesting. They all laughed.</p><p>Dibley-Thoomer took a sip of brandy and resumed his campaign. "Seriously, Theo. How many butlers have you gone through in the last five years?"</p><p>"Way too many. Either they got scandalised and left, or Helen saw to it that they did. Oh, and one was incompetent and dishonest."</p><p>"Well, Gordon is not incompetent nor can he be scandalised; and Saruccio can look into whether he's dishonest."</p><p>Fansworth lit himself a cigarette, mumbling: "It takes one."</p><p>They laughed again, but not before having looked around to check the Mafia don's whereabouts.</p><p>Theo sobered. "And Helen?"</p><p>"I'm sure you'll find a way to persuade her. You should be used to female hysterics by now."</p><p>*          *          *</p><p>Gordon started the rounds of the ballroom once again, silver tray laden with champagne flutes. The drinks never lasted more than five minutes, and then he had to go back for a fresh batch. He held back a sigh. At the club the boys had done the rounds, which only made sense because they had to circulate amongst the punters. Gordon had no particular wish to circulate amongst the punters at Castle Gloria. Not that he disapproved or found it strange: it was pretty much the same crowd he'd had at the Club, except all of them were at the classiest end of the spectrum. The Court Club saw a smattering of posh toffs once in a while, and the rest were ordinary people—if you could call 'ordinary' a group of men united by the desire to escape illegality and stigma for a night.</p><p>While definitely careful around them, Gordon wasn't put off by the guests that looked like the Club owner and his gang; the ones you never asked what they did or where the money came from. The same applied to the ones who had discoloured hands and went on about their art. You never asked them what they did either, but in their case it was because they'd tell you. In excruciating detail, mostly incomprehensibly, and often sullenly over some perceived slight. And then there were the titled ones, who'd all seemingly been to public school with Lord Gloria—and probably done all of the stuff that went on there. Each of them with everybody else in the room. Gordon hadn't spent many years in school, but still remembered the startlingly high number of combinations you obtained when you started to count all possible pairings in a set. But that wasn't a particularly bad thing; just mildly funny considering how unique each of them thought themselves to be. Which had been good for business, back at the Club. Flattery was one of the most powerful levers when it came to punters.</p><p>As a whole, what made this group less than agreeable was the collective level of entitlement oozing from them as humidity from a dank wall. And the way they treated the boy. He basked in their interest, of course: and his eyes were sharp. He was not just admiring, he was learning. But learning what, was not always easy to say. Take the Italian guy with the eternal sunglasses. Probably owned the owner of the Club's owner, oversaw all of the 'business' ventures in Soho, and decreed who was to be found hanging from a chain link fence come the morning. Was the boy looking at his admittedly striking Mediterranean looks, or at the charismatic way the man commanded attention and respect without appearing to do so? Or take the self-proclaimed master painter: was the boy listening to the airy verbiage about art, or studying the way resentment and greed played out in the painter's body language? And how about the titled ones: was it the wit or the snobbery or the scorn he was absorbing? Or could he see which of them hid only vacuity behind the polish, and which played pretend air-headedness to their advantage?</p><p>The boy was observant. Yet there were a few things he saw but didn't observe, whenever the lovely young men and the charming older men fawned on him like a pet, stroked his golden curls or rested their hands on his shoulder. Or rather, the boy hadn't initially observed: but increasingly Gordon got to witness each time the boy's eyes widened slightly, puzzlement fleetingly replaced by the satisfaction of a mystery solved, and then by a slight turn downwards of the mouth, as if in disappointment or distaste. Still, the disappointment was easier to witness than the calculation that sometimes replaced it, and that made the boy look again at the men, mimic their behaviour and redirect it at them. The boy got his way, and Gordon got uneasy. </p><p>*          *          *</p><p>Unfortunately, Lady Gloria had found out before Theo could prepare her for the news. She walked in and pointed at Gordon as he was pouring tea.</p><p>Theo smiled just a little too widely. "That will be all, Gordon. Thank you."</p><p>Gordon bowed and hastened to leave, followed by Helen Gloria's stare. Then she turned back towards her husband. "Will you, just for once, include me before taking decisions?"</p><p>"Helen, it's not life or death. We needed a butler, Dibs mentioned he knew someone trustworthy—"</p><p>"Dibs? Trustworthy? God help us!"</p><p>"Dibs is an excellent judge of character, I'll have you know."</p><p>Lady Gloria laughed. "I'm not stupid, Theo. And I read the papers. You hired someone who used to work for that unspeakable establishment they closed after a rent boy killed a client. Can you possibly not surround yourself with perverts? And likely killers—"</p><p>"The man had nothing to do with it. Dibs was clear on that."</p><p>"How can one be innocent if one chooses to work for a place like, like—"</p><p>"It's a job. People have to work to live."</p><p>Lady Gloria narrowed her eyes. "Unlike some people who marry into it."</p><p>"Will you ever stop throwing that in my face? You bought a title with it."</p><p>She sat down on the closest armchair, all the fight suddenly gone out of her. "That wasn't why—" She looked at Theo across the coffee table. "Before Margaret was born, I thought—" She covered her mouth with a long, elegant hand, fighting tears. "You were—"</p><p>"I'm sorry. I tried. You know I tried."</p><p>"You lied to me! I had a right to know you—"</p><p>"What did you want me to say?"</p><p>"You could have told me—included me—but you just decided—"</p><p>"Helen. I'd heard your opinions about 'perversion'."</p><p>"And yet you chose to marry me—it was about the money after all."</p><p>Theo looked at his joined hands. "You were beautiful. I thought it might work—"</p><p>Silence fell for a while, then Helen took a deep breath. "About that man Gordon. I do hope he's trustworthy. With everything that goes on—the parties, the people. The way people look at Dorian."   </p><p>"You always think everyone is looking at Dorian all the time."</p><p>Helen stood up, truce over. "How can you be so blind—" She paused. "It's disgusting. Your friends are disgusting."</p><p>"And of course we had to get back to that. What's next? Let me think—my friends are corrupting Dorian. I'm corrupting Dorian. The universe is corrupting Dorian. How about his mother?"</p><p>"What are you talking about?"</p><p>"How would you feel if you knew that your mother thinks you're disgusting?"</p><p>Helen raised her hand as if to slap Theo, then took a step back. "You're ruining my son."</p><p>"I'm letting him be himself."  </p><p>*          *          *</p><p>Lady Gloria meant well. For the most part. But bitterness and rancour gushed out of her, and scared the boy. Not that he showed it. For the most part. And nobody had to know about the night terrors.</p><p>Take that afternoon. They'd gone to Lord Price's for lunch, but Lord Gloria had come back on his own, something to do with a phone call—he'd been looking for a new accountant for ages now—while the others had stayed behind. Apparently Lord Price wanted to show the boy his collection. Which was happening quite often these days. The boy had art in the blood—and those artist types knew it, and deployed extra 'benevolence'. Especially that Lord Price—he oozed the kind of benevolence that made Gordon's hair stand on end. And it was plain to see that Lady Gloria shared his opinion; when their car arrived and they got out, she was livid, and her rancour was pouring all over the boy, who appeared confused and cowed. And eager to atone, which was such an unusual thing; he must have been scared indeed.</p><p>Well, at some point early in Gordon's tenure the boy's impulse to atone had been there, when he witnessed the raging rows between his parents, knowing they were over him. But eventually, he'd stopped, acquired that 'serves you right' face and left for the park. The gardener, always ready to claim the starring role for the gossip sessions below stairs, had seen the boy roam around and then repair to a clearing in the underwood, seemingly woolgathering as he lay on a flat stone and stared at the sky.</p><p>It was unfair to have the boy witness the scenes, or her failing to hold her tongue in front of the girls, who were quick to pick up the spite and run with it—children can be so cruel. Not to mention how she telegraphed that the boy was giving her headaches—literally. Her migraines were scary to adults, they must have been terrifying to the boy.</p><p>Worst of all, Gordon had seen the way she grabbed him by the arm and dragged him across the room, or cuffed him smartly enough that he stumbled. Nothing really major—there's no harm in a little discipline—God knows that the boy could do with it, the way his father spoiled him. But Gordon'd seen how she'd left the imprints of her hand on his arm. Gordon had told himself that the boy bruised easily: he had that delicate and slightly girlish build that Gordon could see in the portraits of prepubescent Glorias from yore in the Long Gallery. Yet, those five oval marks had made him uneasy.</p><p>*          *          *</p><p>Gordon set the tray on the low table, poured a cup of tea, and coughed discreetly. Lady Gloria moved the damp flannel covering her eyes and whispered: "Thank you Gordon."</p><p>He bowed. "Will that be all, Milady?"</p><p>"Yes. No, actually. Do you know where Dorian is?"</p><p>"I believe he's in the garden, with Mr. Fansworth's nephews." He emphasised the word 'nephews' just enough.</p><p>Helen Gloria winced, put the flannel back over her eyes and took a deep breath. Gordon waited, looking inconspicuously for the basin Lady Gloria kept around during her migraines. Eventually, she spoke: "Gordon. I need you to do something. But you must be very discreet. It's important."</p><p>"Yes, Milady."</p><p>"Mister Dibley-Thoomer can't find his wallet."</p><p>"Do you want me to inquire with the maids, Milady? They might have seen—"</p><p>"No! No, I just need you to check—" She hesitated, adjusted the flannel, then started again, voice low with the intense pain. "I trust you, Gordon. You know I didn't, when you arrived. But—"</p><p>Gordon excelled at waiting patiently for people to speak.</p><p>"I'd do it myself, but I'm too ill, and there's no time, and Dorian's outside—"</p><p>Gently, Gordon asked: "Maybe young Lord Red found the wallet lying around and took it to his room for safekeeping?"</p><p>Lady Gloria removed the flannel and looked straight into Gordon's eyes. Now that they were brimming with tears, her eyes were the same colour as the boy's. She nodded imperceptibly, then replaced the flannel over her face.</p><p>"Will that be all, Milady?"</p><p>"Yes. Thank you, Gordon." Her voice was raw.</p><p>That was the third time that week that something had got lost, or been misplaced, or gone missing. And reappeared in places where the boy had been. Well, except for the time when Lady Gloria's purse resurfaced in Lord Gloria's bedroom. Of all the improbabilities. The resulting row had seen to Lady Gloria's current migraine.</p><p>It had to be said that Dibley-Thoomer's wallet was hidden quite cunningly—the boy was getting quite good at covering his tracks. But Gordon had the advantage of experience and milieu. He took the wallet and went to Dibley-Thoomer's room, where he tucked it in one of the pockets of the jacket farthest from the wardrobe door, careful not to dislodge or move anything. Then he removed his gloves, and went to tell Lady Gloria that the matter was taken care of.</p><p> </p><p>When a few weeks later Lady Gloria—now immaculately dressed and utterly composed—informed Gordon that she had filed for divorce, he was only surprised it had taken her that long to decide.</p><p>*          *          *</p><p>Gordon set down his luggage, and turned to say good-bye to Lord Gloria and the boy. Lord Gloria gave Gordon a hearty handshake, but was clearly contrite.</p><p>"I'm sorry, Gordon. I do wish this hadn't been necessary. But the state of my finances— Well. However, if one day my circumstances improve, I'll call you and I promise you'll be back with us. For now, I wish you all possible luck."</p><p>There went the cushiest job of his life. He should have seen it coming, though not so soon— the divorce had been the last straw, but Lord Gloria had always lived beyond his means. Gordon also wished him all possible luck. And not just to him. Gordon crouched to face the boy.</p><p>"I'll miss you, Dorian. But I'm sure you'll do well. Be happy."</p><p>The boy stared at Gordon, adult determination in his eyes. "I am happy. I'm not scared. I'm a pirate, like Benedict Red. I'll never get married, and I'll have adventures."</p><p>And he meant it. All of it. Gordon was glad that the boy had such buoyancy and resilience—he'd need it. Lady Gloria and the girls had left, but the crowd of 'benevolent uncles' hadn't. Gordon wanted to warn the boy; tell him to watch out for his 'uncles', especially the creepiest one, that toff who dabbled in illegality, art and greed. The boy's father was there, so Gordon couldn't say anything. But he was very uneasy.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This story follows closely the event of the Eroica side story <i>The Midnight Collector</i>. Written for the Eroica mailing list's  August Challenge 2020 - "Minor characters".</p><p>(Feel free to join us at https://eroicaml.groups.io)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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